


any courage is a fear

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, pie = love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-30
Updated: 2007-03-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 22:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been times in their lives when Dean would have paid every cent he'd ever had for Sam to shut up for three hours, but three days is pushing it, especially for Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any courage is a fear

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to devildoll and luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Title from e.e. cummings.

Dean doesn't start the serious worrying until they're three days out of San Francisco, and Sam still hasn't said anything more than, "No," (You hungry?) or "Yeah," (I'm ready to call it a night, Sammy. How 'bout you?), speaking only because Dean refuses to read answers into his silence.

There have been times in their lives when Dean would have paid every cent he'd ever had for Sam to shut up for three hours, but three days is pushing it--for anyone, but especially for someone like Sam, who talks everything to death--and even Dean's getting sick of hearing nothing but the rumble of the engine and the relentless screech of guitars from the tape deck.

Over the years, Dean's developed a whole arsenal of tricks to deflect Sam, distract him, make him open up without even realizing it, but the first time he tries, Sam looks at him and says, "Don't." So Dean swallows the words, bides his time.

When Sam stays quiet the third day, his thousand-yard stare giving Dean the willies like no ghost or ghoul ever could, Dean thinks about starting the conversation himself: Look, Sam, it sucks, I know, or I'd carry it for you if I could, or even just, you gotta give me something, man, but one look at the set of Sam's jaw, lit by the rolling brightness of the highway lights, and the words stick in his throat.

Each night, Sam sits on the bed and stares at the television, doesn't even turn it on, just stares at the blank screen, eyes blank to match, hiding. Dean knows he's seeing the same thing over and over, replaying that last shot, fingers twitching unconsciously where his hand rests on his thigh.

Dean fires up the laptop, starts poking around, searching for their next job. It's the only thing he knows how to do, the only way he can keep it together; all thought of laying low, quitting for a while, is gone, because he knows all that empty time is nothing but an invitation to mope, and more time to think is the last thing Sam needs. If over-thinking were a sport, Sam would take gold, silver, and bronze at the Olympics without even breaking a sweat, and it's not like he isn't torturing himself over Madison already.

Sam glares at him occasionally, looks like he's going to yell, and Dean wants him to, wants him to let it out, because Sam's never been good at holding back, at keeping quiet, at letting things slide--he doesn't have the same ability to build walls the way Dean does, to stop it from eating him up inside. And as much as Dean mocks him for it, Dean's never wanted him to have to learn. But Sam doesn't yell and he doesn't cry, and Dean doesn't know how to make it better; he only knows how to keep going, keep acting like it doesn't hurt, until the day it stops hurting so much.

Next night, Sam doesn't answer when Dean asks if he's ready to stop, just stares out the window at the waning moon, so Dean keeps driving until his eyes are heavy and burning, and his ass has fallen asleep from sitting for so long.

He pulls into an all-night diner just outside of Sioux Falls, orders eggs and bacon and a side of hashbrowns, and pancakes for Sammy, who eats a few bites and pushes the rest around the pools of syrup on the plate, as if he's still ten.

When the waitress refills Dean's coffee cup, he asks, "Any pie left?"

She shrugs. "Rhubarb, apple, coconut custard. Maybe banana cream, if you're lucky."

"Apple's good. And a scoop of vanilla ice cream."

Sam drops his fork into his plate in disgust and gets up, heads to the car.

"And bring me a slice to go, too," Dean says when the waitress sets the pie down in front of him. He doesn't rush through eating it--it's unexpectedly good, the buttery-sweet, crunchy crumb topping a welcome surprise, and through the window, he can see Sam huddled in the front seat of the car.

He takes the time to savor it, enjoy it; he lets himself unclench a little for the first time since they left California, and he thinks maybe he's never letting Sam set foot in the state again. There are other hunters who can handle the territory, and there's nothing worth the pain Sam's putting himself through right now, no job worth ripping open the still half-healed scabs from Jess's death, and now Madison's on top of it.

He slides the last bites of pie around the melted ice cream, enjoys the taste of apples, vanilla, and cinnamon on his tongue, washes it down with a slug of warm coffee. This used to be all he wanted out of life--his car, a hunt, Sam at his side, and a good cup of coffee. Add in a hot chick, and it was the closest thing to heaven he could conceive.

Now, it's barely enough to get him through the night, and it's never been what Sam wanted at all, but there's nothing else they can do, not 'til the demon is dead and the feds have given up.

And so much for that relaxing moment, he thinks, finishing his coffee and grabbing the check.

Fifteen minutes later, they stumble into the motel room, the carpet a dingy yellow, the walls hung with ugly art, and the windows covered with heavy patterned drapes Sam shoves open to let light from the parking lot in.

Dean says, "Goddammit, Sam," but Sam just closes the bathroom door and takes his sweet time in the shower. Dean falls asleep before he comes out.

Sam's gone when Dean wakes up to pale sunlight streaming through the opened drapes, and he feels his heart seize in his chest for one long moment, until he notices Sam's crap is still scattered around the room. He scratches his balls and looks out the window, sees Sam in the distance, long legs eating up the road as he runs, breath steaming in the early morning chill.

He throws on some clothes, heads back to the diner and picks up some coffee for himself--the girl behind the counter laughs when he asks for a caramel latte for Sam, tells him there's a Starbucks half a mile down the road--and a couple of egg sandwiches.

Sam's showering again when he comes back, so he eats his sandwich and contemplates the second piece of pie in its little plastic wedge-shaped container, before leaving it on the desk next to the bag with Sam's breakfast and the venti caramel latte.

They trade places in silence, and even though the bathroom is the same ugly yellow as the rest of the room, the water is hot, the pressure is good, and the soap doesn't smell like cheap chemical flowers. Dean adds that to his list of things his mythical heaven would provide.

When Dean comes out of the shower, Sam's at the desk, hunched over the pie, eating it like he's actually tasting food for the first time in days. Dean can't hold back a soft sigh of relief, which Sam hears--his shoulders tense for a second--but Dean doesn't say anything, just pulls on the last of his clean underwear and then his not-quite-ripe jeans and shirt, and Sam finishes the pie.

Dean sits on his bed and fiddles with the radio, tuning in "Morning Edition," because he knows Sam likes it (and also, he can't find anything else that doesn't make him want to stab himself in the ears). He pulls out his journal, sorts through the information he's gathered over the past few days.

"Dean." Sam's voice is low, raspy.

Dean's hands tighten into fists he forces open, and he tries not to sound too eager when he answers, "Yeah?"

"Don't."

"Don't what, Sammy? Listen to the news?" He tries a laugh that comes out sounding as tense as he feels.

Sam just shakes his head. "You can't, you can't make this better."

Dean closes his eyes for a second, bites his lip. "I wish I could."

"I know." Sam's mouth curves in a sad half-smile that makes him look both ten and a hundred and ten, and Dean smiles back, chest aching. Sam tosses the empty pie container into the garbage pail, wipes his hands on his jeans. He nods his chin at the book in Dean's lap. "You found something?"

Dean gets up, spreads what he's found out on the desk between them--newspaper clippings, a map, and a page and a half of notes scribbled in blue ink in his journal. "Six kids missing," he says after a sip of Sam's disgustingly sweet coffee. "Old Indian burial grounds out that way." He taps the map with his finger, makes sure Sam's tracking him, paying attention, some spark in Sam's eyes giving him hope.

They're not all right, and maybe they never will be, but they're still together. As long as there's coffee and pie and evil to hunt, that will be enough for Dean.

end

~*~


End file.
